WEBVTT

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The poems that have to do with
my young motherhood, which

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was--

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I don't know-- many years ago--

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my kids were little back in
the '70s and the late '60s

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and so on.

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We used to ride around in
my clunker of a car, VW Bug,

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I think, that couldn't
go in reverse,

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and we used to listen to
The White Album, of course,

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because it was the time to
listen to The White Album.

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So I have these
poems that have to do

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with this period I kind of named
for those songs in The White

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Album.

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And I either reference
The White Album song,

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or I call the poem a title
that will be familiar to most

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of you, except the very young.

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And I don't think any
of those are here.

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Perhaps they are.

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I don't know.

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[INAUDIBLE]

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Yes, probably, there are.

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[INAUDIBLE]

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Oh my god, that's right.

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OK, when your grandfather used
to listen to The White Album--

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jeez.

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It's sad.

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This one is called "While
My Guitar," and I'm

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going to have a glass
of water, a drink

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of water, not a whole glass.

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OK.

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And you know that, of
course, "While My Guitar."

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"My cousin likes to
tell the story of how,

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when she used to visit me
in Pound Ridge, New York,

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my kids were always running
around naked while I

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read French poetry.

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We lived in a
converted apple mill

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and had a big yard, a wide
flagstone terrace littered

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with toys, and the kids
preferred to be naked,

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I believed.

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Or else I was too
absorbed in French poetry

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to clothe them, which must
have been my cousin's point.

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Who knows what I was reading?

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Memory, memory, what
do you want of me?

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Autumn, make the thrush
fly through colorless air.

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Oh Venus, oh goddess, I long
for the days of antique youth.

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Meanwhile, the children ran
around naked, shrieking and

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laughing in the garden hose wild
spray or digging in the dirt

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with my heirloom silver spoons,
and my littlest daughter

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learned to arc her pee
like a boy, standing up,

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which thrilled us.

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Once, a friend, a poet
cataloged the items

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she found on my stairway--
clumps of hair, orange peels,

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trail of paper clips.

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When I wore a black cape
to a school conference,

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my son begged me never
to do that again.

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Do what, I said.

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You look like a witch, he said.

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Memory, memory, what
do you want of me?

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This longing, a
dazzled antique moon,

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colorless the air of the future.

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Who were you on the bright
flagstone, scooping up

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dolls and cars?

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Write to me."

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